


Steam

by insistentbass



Series: Your Mouth To My Heart [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Edging, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light Angst, Long Baths, M/M, Masturbation in Bathroom, Mutual Masturbation, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27711526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: Sherlock comes home after therapy. John is in the bath.'John moves back in on a Saturday. Sherlock just sits in his chair and watches it happen, unable to move for fear of scaring him off again.'
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Your Mouth To My Heart [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001055
Comments: 11
Kudos: 124





	Steam

**Author's Note:**

> Another in the 'Your Mouth to My Heart' series, but can also be read as a standalone.
> 
> Set after 'Mulled Wine'. Sherlock's POV this time, just a quick little dirty ficlet, with a smidge of angst and some lovely fluffy feelings at the end.
> 
> B xoxo

_When you feel the world, wrapping around your neck  
Feel my hand wrapped in yours  
And when you feel the world, wrapping around your neck  
Don't succumb_

_But it’s alright  
Take it out on me_

_Broad Shouldered Beasts - Mumford and Sons_

//

John moves back in on a Saturday. Sherlock just sits in his chair and watches it happen, unable to move for fear of scaring him off again.

It’s January outside so he prepares the fire an hour in advance. The flat is so warm when the two of them arrive, that the doctor is sweating by the time he’s been up and down the stairs twice.

There are only two boxes and a suitcase of children’s clothes to begin with. John brings his stuff over in dribs and drabs, the essentials first and then the few trivial things he decides are worthy of keeping. One box is marked private, so Sherlock stays away from it because he knows the contents would only hurt. He circles it in the flat as if it is a bomb, ready to go off at any moment.

The next few weeks are not Sherlock’s favourite. He has waited so long for this to happen, that every day and every stupidly tiny amount of possessions John brings through the door is like a new wound. Sherlock wants him now, all of him, wants to scream _for God’s sake John, just get it over with_ , but he holds his tongue. The concept of leaving his dead wife’s house is fragile still, how can it not be. There are memories in those rooms that Sherlock is not privy to, and a couple he wishes he could forget.

Lestrade asks John about the sale of the house when he drops by about a case, so Sherlock goes into the kitchen and closes his ears. He doesn’t want to know about the perfect family moving into John and Mary’s house, and he couldn’t care less about the specifics. The details aren’t for him. Some things are still John’s business alone, and though Sherlock could very easily find him a good solicitor and a better buyer, he doesn’t offer his help.

More days and more boxes go by, but Sherlock doesn’t push. If he does, then John might just fall right back into the well of misery he’s been methodically crawling out of, one brick at a time. They’ve come so far, and it’s taken so long, that Sherlock’s just grateful for progress.

Sharing his bed every night is less of an inconvenience than he first thought. It’s surprising. More often nowadays Sherlock finds himself doing things that are just not very _Sherlock_ at all. 

He tries to keep the hours of a normal human being as much as he can, re-arranging the duvet softly over John’s sleeping body and closing the door gently behind him when he can’t. When he’s still hunched over the kitchen table in the early hours, Sherlock discovers a cooked breakfast in front of him and John’s sure lips on his cheek. In return for these kind moments, Sherlock makes more tea than he ever has in his life and tries to touch John whenever he can. He finds himself unable to stop. Even the need to shut himself away for hours inside the decadent walls of his mind palace is outweighed, replaced instead by watching John write up their cases on his laptop, his feet resting in Sherlock’s lap.

Mrs Hudson disturbs them less, whether because she genuinely wants to give them privacy, or because her hip can’t take the stairs as much anymore. At least once a week they take a tray down to her once Rosie is asleep, gin and cakes and a vase of flowers. Sherlock’s arm somehow sneaks around John’s waist without him telling it to, pulling him close in their landlady’s kitchen while she pours their drinks.

He’s changed, and though the notion throws him at first, it’s incredibly easy to settle into. Where once he would prefer the peaceful allure of chosen loneliness, he now craves the warmth of John’s breath on his chest and the sound of Rosie’s giggles filling the living room. Some days Sherlock even wants to leave the crime scenes as quickly as possible, because John flexing his medical brain does something dangerous to him, and now he’s allowed to act on those impulses it’s impossible not to.

Sentiment, the old version of himself would say. Sherlock doesn’t pull away from it anymore.

//

February is all round just shit. It rains almost every day, and though the melancholy is comfortable, the tide of boring cases brings with it a restlessness that sets Sherlock’s patience on edge. Either way, the weather does nothing to improve his mood when he leaves the therapist’s office.

Sherlock is going to fire her tomorrow. He lights another cigarette, blowing smoke into the night air dramatically to illustrate his point. The darkness doesn’t seem to care. It swallows his defiance as he makes his way back to Baker Street.

All he wants to do is get in, shrug off his coat, loosen his shirt collar and stare at the small metal box hidden beneath the bathroom floorboards. Undo the latch maybe, take out the contents one by one one, and wonder. And pretend. Drown out the last hour of talking about his sister and his relationships and his apparent messiah complex.

But he can’t. Sherlock can’t turn the needle over between his fingers, can’t tighten and loosen his belt around his bicep repeatedly until the temptation evaporates. There can be none of that, because John and Rosie are there.

John Watson and his daughter are sitting in 221B so Sherlock can’t practice this ritual, and he isn’t even sure if that square of space just to the right of the sink is empty or not anymore. It’s been so long since he last checked, months in fact, and he can hardly remember the shine of the silver or the weight of it in his hands.

The ghost of smoke on his coat lingers as he reaches for his keys. John will surely notice. His sense of smell seems to increase tenfold every time Sherlock’s resolve bends a little. He wafts his hands in his pockets like wings in the cold air, as if the gesture will help to dissipate his slip up. It does nothing.

Mrs Hudson’s lights are off when he finally opens the door. It’s only then Sherlock realises the hour. Somehow it’s gone eleven, despite leaving Ella’s office just after eight. Vaguely he wonders why his phone hasn’t lit up with texts from John, who normally flips his lid if he’s so much as an hour late from anywhere nowadays. The vulnerability of their relationship is sometimes all too apparent, even now. Secure but frayed at the edges, one sharp tug could begin the unravelling.

Rosie is likely asleep, so he treads lightly on the stairs, taking them two at a time. Their door is ajar, but when Sherlock gently pushes it open the living room is empty, the only light coming from the kitchen. Warm yellow spills across the carpet, picking out the debris. An empty mug, newspaper neatly folded next to it. Several of Rosie’s toys strewn about the floor, a smear of porridge on the arm of Sherlock’s chair from their particularly messy breakfast that morning. John had told them off for playing, but he was only half serious, smile creeping into the edges of his stern eyes.

In the kitchen, the dishes have been done and the surfaces around Sherlock’s microscope wiped clean. They must have had takeaway without him, there are only two plates and a plastic cup drying on the rack. At the thought of food Sherlock’s stomach growls, and he realises it’s been several hours since he last ingested anything but nicotine.

Just as he’s about to venture into the fridge, Sherlock notices a soft beam of light coming from under the bathroom door. It flickers, unmistakably candlelight.

Without invitation, Sherlock pushes it open. John lies in the bath, head back against the tiles with his eyes closed and his grey hair slicked back. Tiny droplets of water roll down the walls, the steam instantly overwhelming.

“Long day?” Sherlock asks, leaning against the doorframe with one arm.

John’s eyes peel open one at a time and he sighs deeply, Sherlock can see his chest rise and fall, creating ripples on the surface of the water.

“Hmm” John confirms, flicking his gaze across Sherlock’s no doubt tired looking face. “Should ask you the same thing”

Sherlock hums his agreement, shifting uncomfortably in his coat. The moist air clings to the wool, so he shrugs it off, folds it over his arm. John moves in the tub, pushing up into a sitting position. His eyes are narrowed slightly in consideration, tongue darting out to wet his lips in a way that never fails to make Sherlock shiver.

“Get in, you’re letting the heat out” John says, gesturing with his eyebrows to the empty half of the bathtub.

Sherlock crinkles his forehead in return – _really?_ – but nonetheless he steps towards John, toeing off his shoes and pulling off his socks. He drops his coat to the floor, any care for his favourite item of clothing evaporating with the bath water. They’ll only just about fit, there in the porcelain boat, and the concept of sharing a bath together strikes Sherlock as utterly ridiculous. So, he does the only thing you can do with an idiotic suggestion, and raises the bar.

“You absolute child” John laughs, as Sherlock climbs in with his trousers and shirt still on, displaced water spilling over the rim and onto the lino.

Sherlock chuckles low and deep, gripping the edges of the tub as he settles back against John’s chest. It’s not entirely uncomfortable but it certainly isn’t the epitome of relaxation. His knees are bent and the tap doesn’t allow for any adjustments. The other man’s shins sandwich him in a bit too tightly and his clothes immediately stick to his skin. But John’s cock is also pressed against his cotton covered buttocks, slowly coming to attention as Sherlock tries to settle himself between his legs. The cramped space is suddenly a lot more tolerable.

John clears his throat at the movement, so Sherlock does it again, and again, smirking at his own reflection on the surface of the water as a small moan escapes the man’s lips.

“Think you’re clever?” John asks, his breath hot across Sherlock’s cheekbone.

A strong hand grips Sherlock’s waist and John pulls him down a little as he scoots up again, trying to gain the height advantage. It works to disrupt the slow grinding Sherlock had managed to build up between John’s legs, and he’s momentarily disappointed. Then there are fingers working open his sodden shirt, see through against his chest as it’s peeled apart, and John grazes his nipples with the pad of his thumb.

Sherlock lets his head loll back a bit. Despite the awkward angle his muscles are beginning to relax against John’s pressing lips, travelling softly over the length of his neck and the small space below his ear. It’s pleasant and warm in his belly, the heat of John’s mouth a welcome comfort on his skin. The wet cotton is beginning to feel a little tight over his groin so Sherlock reaches down to adjust it, but before he can, John has both of his wrists encircled. The grip is tight as his hands are moved to the edges of the bathtub.

“No, I don’t think so” John whispers, voice rough and quiet against the shell of Sherlock’s ear.

Any protest Sherlock was about to make gets caught in the back of his throat. John ghosts his palm over the hardness in Sherlock’s trousers, the touch there and also not at all. It’s maddening all of a sudden, but Sherlock does as he’s told and keeps his hands on the cool porcelain, veins jumping with anticipation.

And then the touch is gone completely. John reaches a hand between them instead and begins to work his own cock, long sure pulls against Sherlock’s back. He can feel John’s knuckles against his spine, the slickening head bumping against his soaked shirt as John begins to moan. It makes Sherlock’s entire body shake.

“John – “ He speaks, but it’s nothing but a breath in the sticky air between them.

He can almost taste John’s dark smile as he continues to work himself, his other hand drifting to play at Sherlock’s chest again. Fingernails dig in painfully at Sherlock’s ribs, and he can tell John is already close, the steam and the unique situation enough to heighten the arousal. The breaths against the back of his head become faster and more strained, and just as he thinks John will finish right there against his wet shirt, the movement stops.

There are a few seconds of quiet as John stills his breathing, pressing his forehead to the nape of Sherlock’s neck. The pressure in his trousers is actually getting painful now, and Sherlock’s knuckles are going white from his tight grip on the rim of the bathtub. Yet he still doesn’t move. He allows John to reign himself back in, step back from the edge as his cock throbs insistently against Sherlock’s back.

Patience pays off, and John moves his hand around to undo Sherlock’s trousers. They shift awkwardly, John anchoring Sherlock’s hips up so he can ease them down his legs. Water sloshes over the edge of the bath, but neither give it any attention. His feet are now trapped in tangled cotton. All at once he feels embarrassingly exposed, naked and obviously wanting between John’s legs.

“You can touch yourself now” John says into his shoulder, biting down lightly at the patch of exposed skin where Sherlock’s shirt has been tugged off.

Sherlock obliges immediately, greedily moving his hand to a steady rhythm, attempting to appear less desperate than he is. He can feel John’s smile against his skin, small and knowing and it’s driving Sherlock mad as he tries not to buck up into his own hand.

“Tell me when you’re close” John’s voice is slightly strangled in his throat as he drifts hands along Sherlock’s thighs.

The steam is beginning to disappear, and Sherlock recaps where he is – mostly naked in the bathtub, John bare and slick with wet and pre-come behind him, his cock needy and hard merely from Sherlock’s presence. That knowledge alone, that John is so easily undone just by Sherlock’s body against him, that perhaps he has sat in this bath tub many times before thinking about him, getting himself off, is almost enough to make Sherlock break.

“ _Yes_ , I’m close” Sherlock confirms, biting down on his own lip to stem the noises tumbling from his mouth.

He feels John wrap a hand around himself again, the other curling around Sherlock’s own, speeding up the pace of his wrist. They move together, the same pattern of touch as they both fall towards the rolling heat of climax. Expletives drip from Sherlock’s lips almost silently as he spills over their joined hands.

“You’re so good Sherlock, Jesus – “

John’s grip slips from Sherlock as he finishes behind him, lips pressed to his shoulder. That hand moves instead to squeeze the edge of the bathtub, the sound of his fingers slipping against the porcelain loud in the small bathroom. Sherlock feels him peak and wane through the pleasure, drinking in the breathy moans coming from John’s mouth.

Despite the cramp rising rapidly up his left leg, Sherlock doesn’t want to move. The water is on its way to lukewarm and his clothes are becoming unpleasant, but John’s torso is still there, pressed against him, his fingers absentmindedly stroking Sherlock’s hip. Reluctantly he does get up though, unfolding his body and climbing out of the tub in one fluid motion. He tugs out the plug, offering a hand to John who takes another moment or two to catch his breath before letting himself be pulled out.

Sherlock reaches behind John for the towel and wraps it around the man’s shoulders, his own skin prickling with goosebumps, shirt dripping onto the bath mat.

“That was… Unexpected” He admits, lips turning into a smile.

John huffs a small laugh, his eyes dewy with afterglow and waning candlelight. Carefully he peels the shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders, takes the corners of the towel and wraps it around them both. It’s another pure and intimate moment, and Sherlock hears the oxygen hitch in his own throat at how natural it feels.

“Let’s get you into bed, yeah?” John asks, and any response from Sherlock is lost in the slow press of lips against his own.

Sherlock blows out the candles as they leave the bathroom. He follows John to their bed and climbs in next to him, buries his nose in the other man’s clean hair. He finds as many points of contact to John’s body as he can, content as the gesture is reciprocated. They fall asleep in silence, the small box under the floorboard by the sink not crossing Sherlock’s mind again. The thought of it isn’t tempting anymore, and he realises – finally – that it was never the solution he needed anyway.


End file.
